Wir Haben Immer Paris
by ListenToYouBreathing
Summary: If life could be relived.. differently... over and over, would you take that chance to change it all?" He paused, "Yes, yes I would." M to be safe, but it isn't graphic. Terrible at summaries
1. Chapter 1

All Characters such as Donny Donowitz and Colonel Hans Landa, mentioned here, are property of the brilliant Quentin Tartantino and Eli Roth.

I commend you, boys.

I am experimenting with Donny Donowitz as a character currently so I pulled out this little ditty. Tell me if you hate it, love it, or simply don't. No flames though, my poor self-esteem can't take it.

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Canary yellow tin pots scattered about the azure reflective tile as the thin layer of dust dissolved into the warm light that snaked beneath the curtains. A foreboding Paris Morning, the ruined streets streaming visibly into the small kitchen whose clutter only made the cramped space more unbearable. The fake gold paint that covered the once copper red pots melded into the deep azure of the blue tiles. A pair of porcelain feet, bony and thin padded along the floor, dodging over simple pots and pans. Even the depths of spring, the air was still frigid, occasional snow lacing over the city on the most average of days.

A shiver raked through the thin girl's body as she neared the tiny cracked copper sink. She twisted the handle viciously, her fingernails unkempt and slightly dirty. Her pale skin gave away to another set of Goosebumps as she shivered, clinging to her thin, blue robe.

Another presence entered the kitchen as the woman parted the light emerald curtains peering out into the deserted and broken streets. Years before, children trotted over the cobblestone, their new knickers and leather shoes shined for the brand new school year. They sang in joy,

"_undi matin, le roi, la reine et le petit prince_

_Sont venus chez moi pour me serrer la pince._"

As the clatter of the metal, a frying pan clattering along the formally smooth yet rigidly cold tile, snapped the woman from her memory, she did not have to glance behind her to tell who exactly had entered. Her light hair, natural soft ringlets, fell into her narrow hazel colored irises as she bent her head downward slightly, her dirty fingers peeling an orange that she had found discarded amongst a bowl of apples near the sink. Normally, the Germans didn't allow such privileges; fresh fruit was a rare thing to behold inside the city. However, the natural born German woman had very little that she was deprived of, besides a pretty view of flowers by window and loving home.

One could make such sacrifices for fresh fruit.

A hand was on her shoulder and the touch, strong, firm, just a tad too tight sent an intense melancholy and longing through her entirety. A shiver, not caused by the harsh spring coldness, struck through her like a fresh wound. She knew that he was in his uniform… such a danger considering the home he was in. The hand turned her rail thin, unhealthy in stature, frame around to face him. She dare not lift her distinct 'ugly' face, for fear that it might be stricken, but she knew even then that he would not lift a hand against her, not as he would. Instead, he immediately cupped her small breast through her sheer pink satin slip, sagging yet full in his icey fingers and gripped her against him. She let out a gasp of either shock or horror, she couldn't tell anymore.

"Arschloch."

She cursed in her native tongue but was only greeted with a gruff chuckle, a low growl of need. The German crush was only met with bitterness or was it tenderness? She could no longer tell as the thick arm that grasped around her waist ruggedly bunched up her slip so that her awkwardly thin legs were exposed to the frostbitten air of the morning. Another gasp was elicited from her narrow lips and she rested her lithe fingers against the moist stubble of hair upon his recently washed face. So he had made use of her basin bowl after all? Even after he had refused. She clenched her eyes closed tightly, shaking her head of blonde curls.

She looked like a movie star. He had told her she looked like a goddamn movie star.

Yet he made no move to take her against the counter. Instead, he held her a little too tightly, firmly, strongly against his large muscular stature. He loomed over her in an appreciative, predatory way… a way that she had never been peered at before. His black eyes bore into her tiny body, her tiny bruised body. She finally lifted her angular face to allow her large hazel eyes, deer-like, to gaze into him as well. Neither of them could speak if they wished to.

For now, the depth of the space between their countenances and the bitter cold kept them silent, subdued by one another. With one another, they gave way to the monotony and the vivacity of silence, the quiet breathed in their presence and embraced them together.

Speaking was entirely irrelevant but this was their final ballad of time.

"Odelia…"

was the only word he could provide, addressing her. His Boston twang thickened with the density of the moment and tears pricked her eyes, a murmur of German escaped her lips. Her entire body shook with an intense tremor only causing him to grip her still too tightly. He never pronounced her name correctly, the nazi overtones being stripped from her namesake. Somehow she loved this… she lacked much pride she had only months before. "Don't…fucking…" It was only the words he expressed in protest to her sudden tears.

She moved one set of fingers from his visage and batted away at her eyes, scrapping away the tears that marked them. Married women didn't cry over enemy soldiers, did they? She could never imagine so. Never so.

"I know, Donovitz." She spoke, using his german pet name. He frowned in disapproval at her sadness and she shook her head rapidly, soon pressing her forehead against his thick woolen uniform. Her tiny fingers befell to his belt buckle and suddenly he was entirely before her, his small form of nakedness burning against her frame. The last time he would come to her, against her, into her.

As they shared skin, searing against one another, seeking out a rapid and ecstatic rhythm, they bit into one another, bleeding out against one another. They raped each other in every manner possible, taking, taking, and taking all they could from the other's body, embrace and warmth. The sunlight leaked into the room, shedding the light over the back of her naked form, pressing painfully against the counter. She screamed out his name, her voice cracking, breaking and wailing, an halo shining around her face, much like one of Apollo's.

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**Next time…**

Paris was the city of death.

'_All ze Jewz, ze are taken from ze zity. In ze carz, like cattle and all zer property, all zer voluez… taken from zem. Zey are gone."_

Her lips move, those thick, fat fingers clenched a lit finely packed cigarette, fat fingers, thick lipstick, stringy black tresses, calves… so much calf. Odelia could never bear to look at her mother in a respectful manner. So far from who she had been, who she had wanted to become. Now she was the disgusting memory of her own mother, fat and gluttonous, bursting into another box of Turkish delights, her well-manicured nails harboring chocolate tracings underneath them.

The year is 1941 and all the Jews of Paris are gone.

Odelia… fair, lovely Odelia, however, is not. The blonde woman was destined to a life, as any German was who so fit Hitler's ideal plan, a life as a military man's wife. As Odelia's large hazel irises scoured over her mother's greedy fingers as they raided the tiny box, tearing the thin paper that had shielded the dessert from her paws beforehand.

Colonel Hans Landa... such a name... as if he never wished to be outwitted or even touched. Odelia wanted to be both.

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Well that is that. If you want more, (AKA the origin story as to how Donny and Odelia even met) review and let me know! Bye!!!


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own the property of Quentin Tartantino, meaning Donny Donowitz, the Basterds, Hans Landa

Okay, the second chapter... still short, so sorry. I am not a too detailed writer.

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Colonel Hans Landa… what a prim name… as if he never wished to be outwitted or touched.

Odelia wanted to be both.

Her mother was more than willing to accept the Colonel's displaced kindness. Pink boxes, wrapped in twine and paper, finely crafted leather gloves, exotic hot teas, the finest milks, sweet creams and candies… Germans weren't privy to such treats during the wartime yet as a woman of the high class, Odelia realized that if she were to receive such gifts, her mother would gladly trade her for such privileges.

Colonel Hans Landa wanted to trade for her life… and like the Jews that he had hunted, slaughter and hid from the light of day, she would be taken. Yet the German girl, only a ripe age of twenty, knew not to resist. She considered herself fortunate, even lucky. There were many young women who would metaphorically die for Landa's affections. Why should she protest? What right did she have to do so? In fact, every morning when she clothed and bathed and drank her warm exotic tea, her red lipstick smudging the rim of the faded glass tea cup, she praised the fact that she was being provided for, loved even.

Though love was too strong of a word, she convinced herself otherwise. It was a survival method she would have to utilize in the future.

* * *

Hans' living quarters reflected the true nature of their owner. Odelia's father, a stern man with little left of his corroding fortune, agreed almost too hastily, putting their match in danger, to let his daughter frequent the staunch French home where the troops slept. She was to visit the Colonel, flirt cautiously and sweetly behind white curtains and floating garbs to win his heart. The home, a mansion in the south of Lyon allowed the high authorities to have private terraces and their own rooms. Rooms with curtains and velvet, a fabric barely known in Paris since the invasion. Supposedly, the estate had been 'gladly' surrendered to Landa and his troup, by a massive family of Catholics.

"The central city of Paris will grow into a thriving metropolis under the Führer's aid." If Landa didn't radiate with a distinct sexual energy, his young guest would've assumed his homosexuality immediately. He was witty, well and soft spoken even in a group, such as those gathered on the stone terrace, and drank his tea in dignified and exact sips much like a woman would. Odelia allowed her head to tilt ever so slightly as if she was overcome with confusion but in all actuality, she found little to be baffled over in his statement. Small actions however, did not go unnoticed by the male species.

A tilt of the head meant that you had the most profound inquiry or interest invested in their words; you believed them to be the most brilliant man in the room.

A slight parting of the lips; entirely sensual, their lips needed to cover your own immediately and entirely. Or perhaps you're awe-struck by their masterful speech or sexual prowess.

Tiny, tender and almost tenacious brushes, grazes and touches. A hand over his bicep, toes trailing down the back of his calf. Lips brushing an earlobe as you whisper the most simple of secrets.

Finally, the power of sound was not to be doubted. A laugh like a set of Belgium wind chimes, tinkling and free. A moan as if you could not be pleasured more.

This was all taught by Mrs. Abendroth herself to her daughter in order to acquire a high class German authority.

The company, staunch and rigid much like the Doric columns that held the large roman marble roof suspended above the terrace, merely nodded in agreement. Odelia accepted the tea that the Colonel had so dutifully prepared for her, not bothering to mention that she didn't care for cream. The small white and pink porcelain cup was only a color tone lighter than her own milk skin and she smiled softly at the dark brew within it. She sipped it, obligingly and when the Colonel smiled in satisfaction, he continued to speak. As his well-placed and intellectual statements floated over and oppressed downward upon the group, the blonde woman let a soft smile cross upon her thin countenance.

She hated to divulge but she craved the power Landa could possess over a room. The young woman had never drifted past the borderline of France… yet here was a man so worldly, so brilliant that surely some of his intelligence would befall to her. And in this moment, a tide of admiration swept over her, engulfing him.

"Afterall, the Fuhrer only entrusts the future to those worthy of it. Worthy to partake in a future that suits the ideal."

* * *

The gifts continued to be delivered. The finest, dew-dropped orchids and Hyacinths, a grey mare with a large breast, truffles from Brussels, dresses, skirts, blouses, hats, lipsticks, shoes from anywhere and everywhere in the continent of Europe, sweet colas imported from Boston, New York… to name only the minimal amount of his various presents. Each of his various presentations dispatched to her a card with sentiments of sweetness and joy.

This was exactly how his proposal was introduced. Though she couldn't quite figure out as to where she would house a dozen white swans, all named 'Blanche' and was mildly upset that her fiancée wasn't able to propose to her in person. Yet when her tears flowed, her mind unable to place exactly as what her colonel actually appeared to be, her mother hugged her tightly and assured her that all the riches in the world would dry her hazel eyes and calm her senses. Odelia's qualms were not eradicated in that moment.

* * *

German men flooded the streets of Paris, their dark colored uniforms, noir and stiff with starch, meshing into the suits. The oxfords clapped against the grey concrete, the sound of t-strap heels clacking around. This morning, Odelia Abendroth's own grey suede heels connected with grim etched into the cobblestone. She dodged around the occasional motorcar, moving about the Saint- Honore, a single hand clamped over her red cap as if a strong wind threatened to toss the felt hat from her blonde waves.

The streets were black, much like the ash-tree grey skies whose rainclouds pregnant with rainwater appeared ready to burst open and downward upon Paris. As the woman fiddled with her blood crimson suede gloves, pulling gently at the fingers, tugging harshly, she crossed a few soldiers perched by a street lamp. Their weapons, large automatics, slung almost too casually over their shoulders, aided their menacing stance. Yet they had the faces of just boy's… just boys that Odelia may have flirted with during finishing school. They appeared to be incredibly perturbed by something, as if God himself loomed over them and spoke no words.

"Bären-Jude… Ein Golem hob durch ein rabi an." They muttered almost inaudibly to each other. Odelia stepped short, faltering as if their gossip riveted her. She snapped her head back, her unhealthy frame swishing around in the cool, autumn air. The men gazed back at her, astounded by her sudden movement. A breath exited her as she inquired softly as if her own air had been taken from her lungs entirely,

"Was?" The german word inquired as to what they were speaking of… The 'Baren-Jude' even thinking of it made her shiver…

"Das Basterds." A nod could only communicate her understanding. The two single words concentrated all the fears of the German troops. Even the civilians could not be shielded from the truth; the murders committed by the Basterds were infamously sickening.

Odelia twisted about, her entire body coming in contact with the full frame of male figure… how scandalous. She wished to twist but merely retracted herself, falling two steps away. The men of whom she had just questioned burst into a series of laughter, considering how horrified and embarrassed the young blonde appeared. Her blonde waves spilled about her angular face… too long, her mother had once said. The man, who she had so absentmindedly spilled into, was dark-haired, abnormally so and had a face so incredibly distinct….

So… morbid. The distorted smirk upon his directed toward her, of all people made her squirm underneath his harsh expression. His eyes smoldered almost viciously, burning holes into every part of her body. No one had ever burnt into her with only their irises but this man made it possible. The obscure part of his shivering and wildly crazed countenance, of the unshaven black stubble that was spread over his chin and large, broad face, of the way he stared now, was that it could make her feel so eliminated, so eradicated from existence and so taken.

She ran.

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Okay I promise I will try harder on the next chapter... tis only the very beginning after all! Read and Review


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